They call it anger. It’s fear. They see rage. It’s sadness. They call it violent. They want no parts of it and this only amplifies what I already tell myself; that I’m unloveable, insignificant, forgotten. It’s low self worth. Its trauma. It’s rejection. It’s faithlessness. It’s so much grief.
It’s certainly anger and rage too. But like all things, it’s not one-dimensional. And I’m entitled to it, so I’m drawing it closer. I no longer fear it. I want to understand it, understand me, even if no one else does or can. After all, they have their own shit to work out.